The Care Package
by riversidewren
Summary: New Year's Eve finds Lucas North in his cell in Russia. Several years into his imprisonment, he is becoming convinced Section D has forgotten him. After all, that is what he hears from his guards on a daily basis. Then a care package arrives unexpectedly, and with it, memories of his life before Russia.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I... in which we find Lucas in his cell in Russia on New Year's Eve, remembering life before he had come to Russia.**

CHAPTER I

Every bone in Lucas North's body hurt. The cold in Russia was unlike anything he had ever experienced. To be sure, the winters of his boyhood in Cumbria had often been long and harsh. However, the freezing temperatures of the gulag, combined with the ever-inventive torture to which he was frequently subjected, fostered a deep, burning kind of cold that seemed to worm its way into the inner core of his very being.

The constant companion of that cold was the emotional darkness that the sadistic guards, with carefully chosen words and actions, had coaxed into full-blown hopelessness. Each night, when a tray of lukewarm tea and mouldy black bread was shoved into his cell, the words would float in behind it. _Another day of your life, wasted. What for, Lucas? You know they've forgotten you._

Although the voice was different depending on who was on duty, not one word of the three phrases had changed in the six years he had been held. Lucas had taken to analysing the intonation of each word, ruminating for hours on the emphasis placed on certain syllables, desperately trying to glean any sense of his captors' mood.

Once in a blue moon, if the day had been especially long and the guards had been drinking, he would catch a snatch of their idle conversation as they passed by his cell door. Today had been one of those days. He had lost track of the date several months ago, due to a particularly virulent gastrointestinal illness that had lasted several days and caused him to neglect the rough calendar he had scratched out in a corner of his monotonous, cinder block cell. _Tomorrow is the New Year._ He heard the voice of one of the guards, his speech slurred, and a keen sense of despair descended upon him.

Closing his eyes and pulling the threadbare, worn grey blanket over his gaunt frame, he settled down on the sorry excuse for a mattress he had finally been allowed last year. Pillowing his head on his arm, he thought of the last New Year's Eve he had been able to celebrate….

The streets of London had been dusted with a light cover of snow, and the coloured lights strung around Adam and Fiona's front porch had twinkled as he had trudged up the walk to ring the bell. The door had been opened by Ruth, who had handed him a mug of mulled wine and dragged him into the living room, where his help was badly needed. Fiona, Adam, Jo, and Zaf were besting Harry, Ruth, and Ros in a very competitive game of charades, and Lucas had quickly been drafted for Harry's team.

Meanwhile, Malcolm, Tariq, and JJ were at a table in the corner, teaching Wes the fundamentals of Dungeons and Dragons. Wes was probably up long past his bedtime, but he sat happily in his dragon-decorated pajamas, soaking up every word of advice from JJ, whom he idolized. Lucas glanced fondly at the now 19 year old IT whiz, who had been recruited by Tom Quinn several years ago. Tom had seen the raw promise of JJ's intelligence, and had convinced him to leave his brother's gang and join an MI5 internship program. With his dark skin, cornrows, and large diamond stud in his left ear, JJ had gotten more of his share of skeptical looks from his initial instructors. However, his intellect and programming skills, combined with his dry, sarcastic wit, had soon won them over. On the day of his graduation from the internship, Malcolm and Tariq had come to the ceremony sporting diamond studs in their left ears, causing JJ to dissolve into laughter as they handed him his diploma.

The night had been full of fun and camaraderie, and had lasted well into the wee hours of the morning. Now, it seemed like a lifetime ago. He wondered if his friends would even recognize him now. _That is_, his mind corrected him, _if they ever think about you at all_. He finally fell asleep, feeling more alone than ever.

**Characters belong to the BBC and Kudos. ****I always thought it would have been intriguing to have JJ join the IT team, so included that as part of my plot.**

**Next time...the care package arrives.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II...in which Lucas receives his package, which conjures up memories of Christmas as a child.**

CHAPTER II

When Lucas woke up, the blank four walls of his cell were staring at him. _Happy New Year,_ he thought wearily. Turning on his side to face the wall, he wondered if he would even see a meal today. On holidays, the guards were sometimes so hung over that they neglected to bring the prisoners food, instead choosing to give the prison a cursory patrol, then settle in to the control room to will their nausea away while dozing over a cup of strong coffee. Just thinking about the possibility of being denied nourishment, _if you can call it that_, thought Lucas wryly, made him suddenly ravenous. Sitting up and leaning his back against the wall, he closed his eyes again, wishing he could have just one cup of proper tea with milk and sugar—with his favourite chocolate doughnut from the bakery around the corner from Thames House. He envisioned the tea steaming in the sleek blue mug he always kept in his desk at the Grid. Ros, immaculately groomed as always, would walk by as he took the first sip, her cool professionalism slipping just a bit as she gave him a knowing look with her hazel eyes. "Late night?"

"How did you know?" he said out loud, his words echoing in the bare cell . Smiling ruefully, he squinted, his eyes still adjusting to the bright light of the naked bulb that had turned on promptly at 0500. It was then that he spied the package sitting in the middle of the room. It was simply wrapped in standard issue postal brown paper, and tied with stout grey twine.

From three feet away, Lucas caught a glimpse of British postal stamps. He stopped breathing, his heart constricting in his chest. Thoughts were racing through his brain as he tried to sort through the possible reasons such a box could be in his room early in the morning on New Year's Day. Could the guards be playing a sick joke on him? Was this some sort of test? Both possibilities were equally likely in this hellhole, where nothing was ever as it seemed._ But-what if_? he thought. _What if he had finally been allowed the luxury of a care package from people who still cared about him?_

He took a deep breath, his throat dry with fear, and approached the parcel cautiously. His hopes had risen instantaneously, and he could almost not bear the thought of disappointment. When he finally looked at the beautifully precise writing on the address label, his vision blurred with tears. _Ruth_. It was unmistakably the neat lettering of the quiet, intelligent, dark-haired analyst, whose blue-grey eyes so easily discerned the gifts and faults of her coworkers.

His index finger traced the words carefully, and Lucas felt her steady presence in the room, as real as if she had laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. His eye then caught the knot the string had been securely tied in, and he recognized Wes' handiwork. Fiona's father was a retired Royal Navy captain, and he had taught Wes to tie a double fisherman's knot even before he could ride a bicycle. Smiling slightly, he tested the knot. "Good work, mate," he whispered. Gingerly untying the sturdy twine, he slipped it off the box and carefully laid it on his mattress. His hands ran over the sides of the box, easily locating the ends of the packing tape, which had been meticulously placed over every exposed seam in the paper. _Malcolm_. The scrupulous attention to detail was his trademark, whether he was designing a facial recognition program or crafting origami flamingos for his mother's tropical-themed birthday luncheon. Ever so slowly, Lucas eased the tape off the seams, a feeling of déjà vu washing over him.

In his mind's eye, he was six again, sitting under the Christmas tree with his first present in his lap. His sister was already stripping the paper off her gift, but he stared the package as if transfixed, the shiny red and silver paper illuminated by the soft lights twinkling in the branches of the fir tree. His mother, ever the artist, had adorned the box with a satiny red ribbon, topping it with a perfect bow. Sitting on the sofa with her arm affectionately wrapped around her husband, Margaret North had noticed her son holding back. "Go ahead, love." He had obediently unwrapped his present, grinning widely when he saw a new rugby jersey.

Later that night, when his mother tucked him in, she had asked him gently, "Lucas darling, what made you hesitate this morning when it was time to open your presents?" He was silent for a moment, struggling to put his thoughts into words. "That moment, mother…it was so beautiful," he had whispered. "Not the gifts, or the tree-but the fire, you and Dad on the sofa drinking hot chocolate, and just—the feeling of being loved and safe. I wish-" his voice trembled. "I wish I could freeze us in time. I don't want to grow up, or for you or Dad to get old. I want things," he had swallowed, trying to keep the tears at bay, "to stay this way forever."

He remembered how his mother had hugged him tightly, murmuring, "Change is a part of life, Lucas, and we can't stop it—in fact, we wouldn't want to, because some of the loveliest things in life happen to us when we least expect it, because our daily routine has become so-routine. But one thing will never change, and that is my love for you."

_I wonder if they are still alive—and if they are, would they even recognize me? _He looked down at his calloused hands, which were marked with scars and bruises. The knuckles on his right hand were still swollen grotesquely from an interrogation session he'd endured two days ago. During the first several months of his imprisonment, he had tried to reason with his captors. Then had come a period when he had given in to anger, and had fought them every step of the way, both verbally and physically. That phase had been short, for he had paid dearly for his recalcitrant behaviour. Even now, merely the thought of being waterboarded for three days in a row made him start to tremble. He had finally settled on a strategy of bearing the torture as silently as he could, reciting poems or songs in his head in order to focus his way through the pain.

Closing his eyes for an instant, he took a deep breath, concentrating on the task at hand. Sliding the tips of his fingers under the tape, he slowly opened the box, unaware that he was still holding his breath.

**Next time-memories of Ruth and Zaf resurface.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III... in which Lucas is reminded of Ruth and Zaf by the contents of the care package.**

CHAPTER III

The first item that met his eyes was a beautifully woven wool scarf. The pattern was a navy blue, deep purple, and black plaid. Lucas picked it up, holding the material against his face and breathing in the scent of a perfume that even now was still familiar to him. The jasmine notes of _Chanel No. 5_, Ruth's favourite, lingered on the fabric. He suspected she had spent hours lovingly weaving it herself. As a young girl, the analyst had been taught by her Danish grandmother the art of using a hand-operated loom, and that very loom held a place of pride in her spare room.

One night, when several of the Section D team had been working late into the evening trying to track a possible security threat, Lucas had commented on the delicate violet merino shawl that Ruth had draped around her shoulders against the chill of the air vent that blew directly down onto her desk. "It's exquisite. Wherever did you find it? I'm not particularly fond of purple, but my sister Jessalyn adores it, and I'd love to surprise her with a similar shawl for her birthday."

Ruth had blushed slightly and looked down at the brief she was writing. "I…erm…made it myself."

"You have a real talent, Ruth," he had said seriously, perching on the corner of her desk. She had looked up at him, clearly uncomfortable with the praise, and had smoothly steered the conversation in another direction. "Are you really not fond of purple? Is that why you never wear the shirt Jo and I gave you last Christmas? You really should, Lucas. Cool tones suit you."

He grimaced. "Cool tones, perhaps—but I don't do purple. It's not manly."

Ruth smiled. "I disagree. Harry's purple tie is one of my favourites."

Recalling the conversation, Lucas wondered if Harry had ever woken up to the fact that Ruth adored him. He hoped so. He wound the scarf around his neck and turned back to the box.

The next item was three _Top Gear_ magazines. _Zaf._ The agent shared Lucas' obsession with cars, and they had attended the annual London MotorExpo just a month before Lucas had left for Russia. Unfortunately, they had been there to tail a Russian oligarch, Mikhail Ustinov, who was suspected of having ties to Albanian organized crime. The Albanian crime lords were apparently avid collectors of classic sports cars, and Ustinov had been seen casually inspecting vehicles in the company of Drago Martovic, the kingpin of a large gang that had a strong presence in London.

Zaf and Lucas had assumed legends that called for them to be representatives for a web-based wholesaler for luxury cars, and they had lured Martovic and Ustinov into their net by offering them a test drive of a Lamborghini with two complimentary bottles of ridiculously expensive champagne. Their targets had readily accepted, and Zaf and Lucas had been successful in neatly planting bugs on each of them. It had been almost too easy, but once the mission had been accomplished, their reward had been to have the last two hours of the show to enjoy at their leisure. They had made the most of their time, practically sprinting from pavilion to pavilion and debating the merits of each car model along the way.

Lucas recalled that their rather lively discussion had continued over a pint (or perhaps it had been several) at the George. In retrospect, the consumption of alcohol in their sleep-deprived and dehydrated state might not have been the best decision. He winced at the memory of Ros walking into the pub and finding them playing a very competitive game of Go Fish with some cards that had been left at the bar. She had quickly realized that they were quite suggestible in their current state, and slyly observed that Wednesday's karaoke night was about to start. Within minutes, she had somehow convinced them that they would certainly win the prize for the night (free fish and chips for three) by performing A-ha's "Take on Me." They had made complete and utter fools of themselves, but had triumphantly borne the tray of fish and chips to their table. Unfortunately, Oliver Mace had been settled in a corner booth with several cronies from Six, and it had been quite some time before he would see either Lucas or Zaf without quietly humming the first few notes of "Take on Me."

_That's one person in London I'd be happy to never see again_, thought Lucas as leafed through the first magazine, stopping at a review of the new Lexus E400 sedan. One paragraph had a sentence that had been circled in red ink. He read, "_While the interior of the new model is updated and seems to define comfort, the handling is unfortunately not up to the standards that we have come to expect from Lexus__. __**The E350, for example, had steering that only a novice driver could have found unresponsive.**__This car, on the other hand, often feels choppy and sluggish, and one wonders if it will be able to compete with the others in its class."_

Next to the circled sentence, Zaf had written, "I always knew it was your driving and not the E350, despite your claims to the contrary." Lucas smirked, imagining how he'd make his co-worker regret his sarcastic comment. The two, along with Adam, were famous for the pranks they pulled on each other, and constantly engaged in a game of one-upmanship_. I have the advantage, though-I have hours upon hours of nothing to do but plot their downfall_.

**Next time-Lucas comes across Ros' contribution...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV...in which Lucas remembers a stakeout with Ros.**

**CHAPTER IV**

He set the magazine down on his mattress, then picked up the other two issues and placed them on top on the first. Under the last magazine, a layer of silver tissue paper sporting a familiar logo appeared. Nestled below the tissue paper was a pair of long underwear. He fingered the material, and could not hold back a chuckle. Black silk. _Ros._ The memory of a painfully long winter stakeout was suddenly before him.

Lucas and Ros had been charged with observing the comings and goings from the Yemeni Embassy. Internet chatter in the Al Qaeda channels that Ruth routinely monitored had hinted that the Ambassador from Yemen was being courted by the terrorist network. If he was won over, the Embassy could become the perfect launching pad for unleashing attacks on London civilians. Embassy staff under diplomatic immunity would be safe from suspicion—and the prying eyes and ears of MI5—at least whilst on their compound. "Once they are off, we will discreetly follow their every move," muttered Ros with determination, tapping the steering wheel expectantly. Lucas sighed and poured himself another cup of scalding coffee. The temperature was near freezing, despite the fact that the sun had gone down only an hour before.

Ros eyed him out of the corner of her eye. "How can you continue to drink that stuff?" she asked incredulously. "Honestly, when Tariq is in charge of the coffee fund, I boycott the break room. The stuff he brews could easily pass as rocket fuel."

"It's not difficult to drink it when you're half frozen," replied Lucas crossly.

"For God's sake, Lucas, how did you survive in the north of England as a child? Let me guess…while all the other children were outside making snowmen, you were inside playing chess."

"There is nothing wrong with a good game of chess on a winter afternoon," said Lucas defensively, refusing to rise to the bait. "But for your information, I was usually playing a bitterly competitive game of ice hockey, which often led to shedding layers rather than adding them." He looked at her suspiciously. "How is it that you are sitting there like you've got your own internal thermostat on 40 degrees Celsius? All you have on are jeans, a thin long-sleeved T-shirt, and your bloody leather jacket."

"It's what's on underneath that's my secret weapon," replied Ros sweetly.

He held up his hands. "I think we're crossing over into the territory of too much information, Ros."

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Why is it that men have such simple, one-track minds? I'm referring to thermals, Lucas—not the postage stamp excuses for underwear that you see in pop music videos."

"Thermals?" he echoed, slightly confused. "Like the flannel ones my granddad used to wear? With the-flap thing on the back?"

"That is one variety, but I think even the Home Secretary wouldn't be caught in those nowadays. No, Lucas, I'm referring to the base layer any self-respecting operative wouldn't be caught without on a winter's night-black silk long thermals from Jasmine Silk. Trust me, it's got the official seal of approval. Harry's got three pairs."

"I do _not _want to know how you have that kind of information," he muttered under his breath.

"Please! He told me," retorted Ros.

"Do you often have a conversation with Harry about his undergarments?" asked Lucas acerbically.

"Go ahead, mock me," said Ros calmly. "But just remember, I'm the smart one here. I'm warm and comfortable, and I'm not drinking that nasty concoction masquerading as coffee. Care to start taking your antacid now or later?"

Two days later, Lucas came into the office before dawn to prepare for a meeting with the CIA later that day. The subject was to be security for the President's daughter during her semester abroad in London. Based on the email demanding the parley that had been sent to Harry by his CIA counterpart, American arrogance was alive and well. Lucas suspected that Harry would be engaged in a verbal fencing match no later than two minutes into the meeting.

He headed for the coffee pot, anticipating that Malcolm, who was in charge this month, would have primed the machine the night before with the rich Colombian roast that he favoured. Sure enough, the timer on the coffee machine had already triggered, and a fragrant, heady aroma filled the air. Filling his blue mug and adding a touch of cream, Lucas made for his cubicle, tucking a file on the First Daughter under his arm.

As he pulled his out his swivel chair and switched on the desk lamp, he noticed a small package wrapped in elegant silver paper resting on top of his laptop. Curious, he put down the file and mug and picked it up, noting that it was relatively light. His thoughts turned to Zaf and Adam, and he became immediately suspicious. Carefully inspecting the wrapping and determining that it lacked a timer and appeared innocuous, he peeled back the gift wrap to see a pair of black silk thermals. As if on cue, Ros strolled in. He looked up and grinned. "Ros, I didn't know you cared."

She smiled back serenely. "Oh, I wouldn't make too many assumptions, Lucas. Perhaps I just got tired of listening to you complain."

**Oh, how I love Ros. Next time...memories of Malcolm.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V...in which a bakery box brings back memories of a favourite haunt in London, first discovered with Malcolm.**

**CHAPTER V**

He chuckled at the memory, then turned back to the package and froze as he saw the corner of a pale blue box peeking out from beneath the next layer of tissue paper. As if in a trance, he brushed the paper aside and beheld the familiar gilt lettering on the box, with a fanciful swallow in the center of the logo. _Patisserie Le Petit Oiseau_. The sights and sounds of the bakery came rushing back to him, and it was if he was stepping through the door on the cold, dreary March day that he had first stumbled upon what had become his favourite retreat from the pressure of Thames House.

That morning had been a disaster from the time his alarm had gone off. He had awoken to find the power out in his flat. Thankfully, the alarm had been set on his mobile, and had faithfully gone off despite having a low charge. Scrambling through his closet in the dark, he had managed to pull together his clothes with the flashlight on his iPhone. Dashing through the chilly, damp air to the tube station on the corner, he had just managed to score a seat before the doors shut. He sat back and leaned his head against the wall, aware that this was the only bit of luck he had had within the last week. Closing his eyes, he sighed, recalling the debacle that had been his Saturday evening.

It had all begun innocently enough. He had spent Friday afternoon at the Tate Modern enjoying a rare three-day weekend devoid of MI-5 business. That morning, he and Adam had managed to shut down a British extremist group that was plotting to disrupt the upcoming elections with a series of nerve gas attacks. Harry, impressed by their quick thinking when the operation had threatened to unravel, had given them each a three day weekend. Adam had promptly bundled Fiona and Wes into their car and set off to Paris on the Eurotunnel Shuttle. Shutting down his computer, Lucas had walked out of Thames House to see an advertisement for the new Cubist exhibition at the Tate. The works of Picasso usually garnered all the attention, but he was intrigued to see a lecture was to be presented that day on the art of Juan Gris, who had always been one of his favourite painters_. Why not?_ he thought.

Thirty minutes later, he was comfortably settled in the lecture hall, perusing the brochure touting the speaker's latest coffee table book on Cubism. His reverie was rudely interrupted by someone nudging past him rather aggressively, a bulky leather satchel in tow. His annoyance was magnified when the satchel caught on his knee, followed immediately by the dumping of large iced frappucino into his lap. "Bloody hell!" came a loud exclamation from above him, echoing the words that had just come to his lips. He looked up, his blue eyes sparking with indignation, but instantly mellowed when he beheld the beautiful woman in front of him. She was tall and willowy, and her dark brown hair was caught up in a messy bun. Her face was framed by dark-rimmed cat-eye glasses, which gave her a professional, almost scholarly air. That erudite look was echoed by her dark jeans and tastefully tailored tweed blazer, which was layered over a crisp white shirt that revealed just a hint of the silver necklace at her throat. The rueful smile that tugged at her lips was captivating, but it was her musical voice, graced with a charming Eastern European accent, that had truly driven him to distraction.

She had apologized profusely, and dug through her satchel to find a packet of tissues. "Here, let me."

"I'm fine, honestly," replied Lucas with a smile. "It could have been worse-at least you didn't have a boiling hot coffee in your hand."

She laughed, displaying perfect white teeth. "You are too kind. I'm Petra Rostova, and I'm not always so inept."

He extended his hand. "William Andrews." Her voice reminded him so much of Elizaveta that the words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about what he was saying. "But I go by my middle name-Lucas." He had been on the point of proposing to Elizaveta, but they had mutually agreed to take a break for a time in the wake of a huge fight two weeks ago over his incessantly unpredictable work schedule.

"Pleased to meet you, Lucas," she said pleasantly, and his heart stopped when she uttered his name. Her intonation was exactly the same as Elizaveta. If he was honest with himself, that was why he had committed the cardinal sin of giving a stranger his real first name. He had wanted to hear it spoken the way Vyeta always pronounced it. _Loo-kas_. It was more painful than he could have imagined.

Thankfully, the lecture had started at just that instant. He turned his gaze towards the stage, instantly knowing that he had wasted the price of admission, for instead of enjoying a talk on his favourite era of art, his mind was now wandering through a morass of poignant memories.

When the applause had died down and the audience had begun to disperse, Lucas had mechanically gotten up and headed for the exit on autopilot. He vaguely heard his name in the distance and turned to see Petra hurrying after him. "I just wanted to apologize again. I am sorry for my clumsiness, but not sorry for having met you, Lucas." She gave him a shy smile.

He was dumbfounded to hear his voice, warm and polite, asking to meet up with her the next evening. "What do you enjoy? Theatre? Movies?"

She thought for a moment, then eagerly said in a rush, "Dancing. I love to dance. Do you?"

"Very much," he replied with an engaging smile.

They arranged to meet at eight o'clock at a tube station equidistant from their flats, and Petra disappeared into the crowd with a last wave. It was then that a sinking feeling descended upon him. If there was one activity he disliked, it was dancing. He could manage a waltz if the occasion required it, as it had at Adam and Fiona's wedding, but he always had to count furiously in his head throughout. He most definitely could not carry on a conversation at the same time. A more disturbing thought came to him. What if she was a devotee of samba? Tango? He groaned inwardly, and wondered if he could fake an ankle sprain if the occasion called for it.

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Unfortunately, the reality had been even more horrifying. He had arrived at the designated meeting spot to see Petra dressed in four inch bright orange stiletto heels and a hot pink, body-hugging sequined strapless dress. What made the garment truly exceptional, however, was that it sported a maniacally grinning Hello Kitty engaged in various athletic pursuits, to include cricket, football, and judo. The garish garment ended mid-thigh, and was drawing the attention of more than a few commuters passing by. Lucas was unsure whether this was due to the acrobatics of Hello Kitty, Petra's figure, or both. She caught sight of him and navigated skilfully through the crowd, walking more gracefully than he ever imagined someone could in sky-high heels. Enveloping him in a hug of greeting, she kissed both his cheeks warmly in the custom of Eastern Europe. As he slipped his arm around her, Lucas began to relax when she launched into an animated conversation about modern art. Petra was intelligent and articulate, and he soon felt ashamed for having judged her based on her fashion sense, or lack thereof.

Steering him down the walkway, Petra bundled her companion into the tube, chattering rapidly the entire way. He was still feeling somewhat stunned when she hauled him out of the carriage four stops later, breezily towing him up the escalator to emerge into the cold night air. He suddenly became uncomfortably aware of throbbing techno dance music emanating from the large warehouse in front of them. _Good God, please no_, he thought desperately. In an instant, he imagined Adam and Zaf laughing hysterically at CCTV images of Lucas North, soberly clad in jeans and a dark blue dress shirt, venturing out onto a dance floor populated by gyrating twentysomethings. As he was propelled into the club, Lucas felt a silk scarf being wound around his neck. "Lucas, I forgot to tell you it's neon night!" Petra shouted into his ear as the deafening pounding of J-pop assailed his ears. "What luck that I had an extra scarf in my purse!" He looked down to see a bright yellow piece of cloth that featured a happily dancing penguin that he darkly suspected was part of Hello Kitty's entourage.

Suffice it to say that the night had gone downhill from there. He had made a graceful exit when he had returned from the bar, drinks in hand, to find Petra engaged in a passionate embrace with a hulking man clad in black leather who had a rather impressive purple Mohawk.

He was suddenly jolted back to reality by the carriage slamming to a stop. Glancing at his watch, he realized he had only 10 minutes to make it to Thames House. Sprinting up the stairs, he automatically turned right, and was two blocks down the street before he realized that something was wrong. The traffic circle that appeared in front of him was not part of his normal route, and neither was the garish six foot chicken sporting dreadlocks that served to advertise a Jamaican jerk restaurant.

Swinging around, he caught sight of a street sign. Brilliant. He had somehow managed to get off the tube one stop early, and was now sure to miss his 0700 briefing. Harry would be not be happy. To make matters worse, the heavens, which had been threatening rain, opened up and he was caught in a torrential downpour. He ducked under the nearest awning in a vain attempt to stay dry and avoid a full-blown panic attack, and was surprised to hear a loud tapping on the window behind him. He turned around to see Malcolm sitting at a small table in a bakery, casually dressed in a sweater and corduroys instead of his usual suit. He waved for Lucas to join him. Lucas shook his head and pointed at his watch, mouthing _"Can't-was due at Thames House five minutes ago."_ Malcolm chuckled, and Lucas raised an eyebrow questioningly. Grabbing a pen, the older man picked up a napkin and hastily scrawled something, then held it up to the window. BANK HOLIDAY. Lucas closed his eyes and allowed his forehead to bang against the window. He could have been been lying on his couch reading, and instead was out in the rain, getting more miserable by the minute. His mobile beeped with a text alert, and he held it up to see a message from Malcolm. _"It's too late now-you're up. Come on in and have the best chocolate doughnut in London." _

He had pushed open the frosted glass door, ornamented by a drawing of a fanciful little swallow with the words_ Patisserie Le Petit Oiseau_ displayed in gilt script above it. The various aromas that greeted his nose were heavenly. He detected the delicate notes of airy meringues mixed with the buttery goodness of fresh baked croissants. However, when he sat down in the chair opposite Malcolm, his gaze was transfixed by the chocolate confection on the plate in front of him. Malcolm hailed the waitress, "Angelique, another pot of tea, _si vous plait_." The dark-skinned woman smiled at him, answering back sweetly in a lilting Caribbean accent, "Absolutely, MWJ! You need to take care of that voice of yours, love. You'll be carrying the tenors at Easter."

She promptly disappeared into the kitchen, causing Lucas to glance inquiringly at his colleague. "MWJ?" Malcolm cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Obviously, my initials. We-erm-sing in the Bach Cantata choir together. That's how I started coming here. Angelique's father is from Haiti, and he runs the place. He's got an amazing hand with pastry. Try the doughnut."

Lucas looked down at the perfect circle of light chocolate cake in front of him. Lacy ribbons of silky ganache dribbled lazily down the sides of the pastry, and his mouth began to water just looking at it. Picking it up, he grinned at Malcolm. "I almost hate to eat it. It's like a work of art."

"You'll get over that once you take the first bite, trust me," replied his companion.

When the first bit of doughnut greeted his tastebuds, Lucas closed his eyes in bliss.

"You're right." He heard his words echo in the emptiness of his cell. "It's like a bit of heaven masquerading as a pastry." Sitting under the stark light of the bare lightbulb, he ate the doughnut in excruciatingly small bites, missing the company of the perhaps the kindest heart on the grid.

**Caught up with what I've written so far...suggestions on which character's contribution to the package to tackle next?**


End file.
